


back off (i need you)

by teifi



Category: Food Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mild Language, Non-Linear Narrative, Points of View, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-07-21 01:39:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16149851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teifi/pseuds/teifi
Summary: It hadn’t been the first time Steak had dealt with an unwanted proposal. Far from.





	1. Year 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It hadn’t been the first time Steak had dealt with an unwanted proposal. Far from.

It hadn’t been the first time Steak had dealt with an unwanted proposal. Far from. If proposals were swords then he would’ve been cut bloody and raw a long time ago in defense of his Master Attendant. (There was a different analogy that could be made involving fire and going from rare to well done, but Steak also wanted to punch something whenever he realized that it existed. Such as now.) Sometimes Food Souls defended their masters against monsters and villains. Other times it was maidens (he…assumed) who didn’t know what an engagement meant.

Still, it was the first time he had received a letter for _himself._

“She does know you’re a Food Soul, right-“

He didn’t know why he had shown it to Red Wine. He didn’t know why that had been his first thought. But somehow that was how it had ended up: him, Red Wine, the cellar of their masters’ mansion, a letter first in his hands, then, Red Wine’s hands. Above them, music: strings, a flute soaring above it all. The two of them couldn’t settle it in the gardens. So, instead, the cellar.

Though Steak wished it was otherwise, because at least then they could settle it with fists. “Of course!” Those two words shot out of Steak’s mouth: hot, offended, as if Red Wine was suggesting that he was somehow…less, but then Steak hesitated. The look on Red Wine’s face. It was distant. Like he was suddenly ten years ago and someplace far away, somewhere far beyond Steak’s reach. “What?”

Nothing.

“What?”

Nothing. Steak found himself tempted to wave a hand in front of Red Wine’s face…he didn’t; Red Wine would probably…he didn’t know, cut it off. Somehow. They might not have room to fight properly, at least if they didn’t want to bathe in casks and bottles of wine, baptized in the very same thing that bastard came from.

“What!” Instead, Steak repeated it, louder, more insistent, and if Red Wine didn’t move he was going to shake that guy-

-but he did. Red Wine blinked, twice, as if he had just been woken up from a long dream, and that was when Steak started to wonder if something…was something wrong? And he tried to cobble together the words to ask, but words had never been his strong suit.

“I just can’t believe someone would propose to you, you simpleton.”

Never the _hell_ mind.

“Why wouldn’t she propose to me?”

And then there was silence, broken only by muffled flutes and muffled strings.

Red Wine…him simply saying what he was thinking would’ve been bad enough. Steak knew it was coming. He knew. He had braced himself the second he saw the look in that bastard’s eyes. The way they narrowed. The way his lips twitched. He knew what was coming. They’d been through it a hundred times before, and probably would be going through it a hundred times more before their masters both died. He _knew._

Or at least Steak thought he knew what Red Wine was going to do, but his fellow Food Soul couldn’t make it that easy, no. He couldn’t just say what he was thinking, no. It was never that easy, not with him. Never.

Red Wine first leaned back, and then moved to swirl a glass of wine in his hand, before realizing…ah, yes, he didn’t have a glass of wine. They had bottles, though, and that bastard looked at one or two of them, as if tempted to crack open one of them. And maybe he was. The Madam wouldn’t mind. Steak knew this.

But no, apparently none of those met Red Wine’s standards. He looked at them, then, away, then at Steak, slowly eyed him up and down, and said, “You’re inelegant.”

“Tch. What does that matter?”

“It matters that if anyone proposed to you they had exceedingly poor taste.”

“What’s that you-?!”

“Shut up!”

Violins, from above, music piping down suddenly loudly: someone had opened the door to the cellar. Steak shut up. It felt suddenly- he knew his Master Attendant wouldn’t care. He really wouldn’t. He’d probably find the fact his Food Soul had been proposed to funny. And yet it felt as though he was doing something he shouldn’t. He probably shouldn’t. His place was up there, by his master’s side.

Red Wine- he didn’t know what Red Wine was thinking, but, he never did. He might understand Red Wine, but he also never would ever understand Red Wine. Difficult to explain. Fortunately, no one would ever force Steak to try to explain, so he was safe in that regard. But Red Wine?

Red Wine stared at him with carefully narrowed eyes, carefully silent, and seemed poised to…hide? No, he couldn’t be. Not that asshole. Regardless, though: the music was muffled again. Apparently whomever had opened the door had closed it just as quickly.

They didn’t have much time left. Sooner or later someone would look for them, or, if not them, then one of the casks and would find them in the process. And, sure. His Master Attendant wouldn’t mind, nor would the Madam, but…still. Something sat wrong with just having people know the two of them were down here, like this, talking about that. That…letter that had been delivered to him.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“The letter?”

“Of course. What else would I be speaking of?”

“Burn it. If I ever find who sent it, tell ‘em I’m a Food Soul.”

Red Wine gestured to his horns. Then gestured to Steak. And then he turned, shook his head, tugged on his jacket, brushed off some imaginary dust because of course he would, of course Red Wine would, playing at- Steak didn’t know what. He never did. “I’m going upstairs.” He offered the letter back to Steak; Steak took it. “Do what you will.”

“Of course I will-” But of course Red Wine was gone. He was walking away, and he was still there, but he was already gone; upstairs, away, to Madam’s side, his brain had flown away from inelegant concerns like Steak and letters sent from…who knew where, there wasn’t a name on the envelope. Steak had checked. Twice.

…it didn’t matter who sent it. Queen or princess or duchess or peasant. They’d all be treated the same way. Steak knew where his duty was, and only death would change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's gonna be non-chronological and self-indulgent. Will I get to Chapter 2? Will I get to them hooking up? We'll find out.


	2. Year 90

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The small girl had eyes like stars and dirt on her feet, and asked him, first, if he had eaten her cat. (Red Wine had said no.) Then, if he was a vampire. (Red Wine said no, he was a Food Soul.) Then, if they could find her cat for her? His name was Pumpkin.

The request fell outside of the scope that an organization which called itself the Holy Knights of _just_ the Order of Canaan (and perhaps the Holy Sword as well, if Red Wine was being honest with himself, but, in almost all matters involving Steak, he never was) would be expected to receive and deal with. Red Wine had his suspicions that their willingness to deal with all sorts of requests, so long as they were helpful - anything from slaying a wayward Fallen Angel to helping fix a roof - had given them a reputation. Was it a reputation that Red Wine minded?

No, not really.

But it was still a reputation. And, besides, between the two of them they were fairly good at weeding out the useless requests, the ones that came from people who could do it themselves, should do it themselves, and had mistaken them for a couple of pro-bono handymen, and the look on His Lordship's face when Steak had bluntly turned his landscaping opportunity down was still one which brought joy to Red Wine's heart. It had been months, but it was still a fond memory, a vivid memory, the sort of thing he'd wrap in tissue paper and leave in a back drawer in his mind, and occasionally pull out to look at fondly.

Still. The small girl had eyes like stars and dirt on her feet, and asked him, first, if he had eaten her cat. (Red Wine had said no.) Then, if he was a vampire. (Red Wine said no, he was a Food Soul.) Then, if they could find her cat for her? His name was Pumpkin. Was he red? No, he was white. And round. And scared-

This was the point in which she burst out in tears and Red Wine had to console the girl while Steak stood awkwardly over...there, somewhere. Steak had many- some talents, some, but one of them wasn't knowing what to do with a girl and her tears. He never understood a woman's heart and never would. But at least he finally understood enough to know when to step aside and let someone else handle things, like now. And Red Wine promised her that they'd do their best to find Pumpkin.

\---

That was how Red Wine found himself at the cemetery on the outskirts of town.

Of course he would be the one to end up at the cemetery on the outskirts of town. He had no idea what Steak was doing, but one thing was for sure: it was not being at the cemetery on the outskirts of town.

Well, more specifically, Red Wine was at the cemetery on the outskirts of town, approaching the deserted funeral home equally on the outskirts of town, which, honestly, just made everything all the worse. It felt like something out of the horror stories his Master Attendant once enjoyed reading. The locals had all told him of some fire. A disaster. The community had rallied to put it out before it could spread, but the building was a loss. The business didn’t know what to do just yet. Would they rebuild there or elsewhere? Would they close entirely? They had yet to decide.

For the time being it was just burnt out ruins, and Red Wine hated the fact that he was the one who had ended up there. But just as all of the locals had been vague on what caused the fire (some said a Fallen Angel, others said two teenagers and a flask and knocking over a lantern) they all were specific on the fact that the local cats loved the funeral home.

And Red Wine had already started to notice. On his way to the funeral home he had already encountered five cats: one black, two tabbies, one gray, and a white cat who he thought might have been Pumpkin for all of a hopeful moment. Was it done so soon? Could he catch Pumpkin and lord it over Steak for the next month...and then noticed that the white cat had a black tail. The girl had been very insistent that Pumpkin was solid white and had a blue collar.

"Fantastic."

That left the deserted funeral home to search.

Quite honestly, if Steak was with him all of this might've had him- not reconsidering his commitment to the knights, nor his commitment to the girl or her cat, but his commitment to something. Red Wine didn't know what, but he knew he'd be reconsidering his commitment to something, and he'd be doing so in a way that would spark an argument from Steak, and likely they'd accidentally scare off all of the cats with it, so maybe it was for the best that he was alone.

Maybe.

Actually, the best would've been Steak dealing with this part. (Where _was_ he? Not that he had to be here. If they were both human they'd both be grown adults at this point, capable of handling things by themselves. But that was besides the point. Where _was_ he?) But things didn't always go the way they might have wanted them to, and sometimes things just didn't work out the way that they might want, and sometimes that meant Food Souls who didn't want to would have to would have to enter places like yon funeral home. What's worse: one would expect this sort of situation to be...gloomy. A burnt out funeral home with a nearby cemetery. By rights it should be late fall, early winter. There should be a chill in the air. Perhaps it could be late evening instead of late afternoon?

But no, it was early spring, and there was a bird singing somewhere, and there were trees. Scattered here and there, trees that had survived the fire, filled with blossoms. Apple blossoms, Red Wine...thought, maybe, but most of his knowledge of flowers came from his Master Attendant, and her interests had angled in a slightly different direction than orchards. It wasn't relevant, anyway. It could've just as easily been peach blossoms or pear for all it mattered. (It was apple. Red Wine was sure it was apple.)

But he hated this.

\---

Spider threads caught at his face, a sign that no one had been there recently. If he had been with others (well, just Steak, really, if he was being honest with himself, but Red Wine didn't feel like it, thus, the ill defined _others_ ) Red Wine might have made a show of brushing the spider silk aside, a show of grimacing, and a show of sneering. At what? Red Wine didn't know. If he were with others he would've made up an excuse. But he wasn't with others. He was alone.

And if he was with others (Steak), Red Wine would've complained about the fact that he had just walked into a cobweb. He might've called attention to his appearance, and maybe suggested that they use something else to clear the way. Like, say, Steak's horns. But he was alone, which meant that he just grimaced, took off a glove, and wiped at his face.

Disgusting.

He'd live, but gross. That was the only word for it: disgusting.

(Blood bothered him, rain didn't. Dirt actually didn't so long as it was in a situation that made sense - nature versus _some_ people not using the mat at the door - but Red Wine still regularly made a thing of it as long as there were _some_ people to hear him. Dust did because dust was avoidable. Dust implied laziness, disuse, decay. It was the fate that awaited all Food Souls at the end. It was one of the few things he and Steak could agree upon. And spider webs normally didn't bother him so much as they were in places which made sense, such as a deserted funeral home, but when he nearly took in a mouthful of web by accident? That was when they really bothered him.)

The lobby (he assumed, once upon a time it was one) was empty.

Mostly. There were husks of chairs, with enough structure that he could imagine they were once nice. There was a charred thing that appeared to be a counter. Red Wine felt something on seeing what they had become. He wasn't sure what. A weird sense of pity? Envy that they were bound to the confines of time and he would live on forever until something or another killed him? He wasn't going to think about it. He had a cat to find. The sooner he found the cat, the sooner he could leave, and the sooner he left the sooner he could get back to the inn and find a bath and soak.

The hallway beyond was worse, somehow. The floors creaked beneath him, and with each step dust (and dirt, and ash, and who knew what else) trailed after him like a faithful shadow. Enough of the roof and walls and the walls beyond were gone that, on occasion, Red Wine caught a glimpse outside where it was bright and crisp and the air smelled like some kind of fruit. The juxtaposition was starting to get to him. He needed to search the place, find Pumpkin if he could, return him to his mistress, go back to the inn, and take a very long bath. With bubbles.

It bothered Red Wine, and the bothering was starting to really get to him, and he had no way to get the _bother_ out of his system. Who could he talk to?

No one, besides maybe the cats and whatever else had nested in the building.

Red Wine could hear something. Scratching. Clawing. Yawns. Cat sounds. And sounds that weren't quite cats. He couldn't quite rule out that the ghost of the burnt out coffins (why did it have to be a funeral home, really, the ambiance really made it hit home that he looked like a stereotypical vampire in many respects, and some human stumbling across him would likely get the wrong impression) had somehow arisen as a Fallen Angel to avenge its brethren or whatever nonsense made it to the penny novels of home. Likely not. More likely, it was just animals. Cats. Hopefully Pumpkin.

He would be furious if Steak beat him to this, especially after all of this.

The first room he found was empty. There were twigs and bugs, leaves and dirt. It seemed as though something had nested there at some point. There was a circular groove carved into the floor, and what appeared to possibly be tiny bones scattered on the ground, though, for some strange reason, Red Wine found himself disinclined to take a closer look. They looked like bones. Good enough. There was no cat inside.

Behind him was what appeared to be some kind of storage, once, containing coffins. And cats sitting in said coffins. Because apparently a few things remained consistent: water was wet, the sun chased the moon, time passed himself and Steak by, and cats would always find the closest box and sit in it. None of the cats were white. Several of them hissed. A few looked vaguely affronted at his appearance. Offended, like who is this Food Soul who dared step inside of their land? He is not a cat. Come back when he grew whiskers and a tail.

"Fine."

They stared.

"You're not who I came for, anyway."

The next room- books, or at least a bookshelf, and some scraps which implied that they might have been books once upon a time. Some kind of study? And a hole to a beneath, and Red Wine realized at that point there was likely a downstairs to the building. He really didn't want to have to hunt down there for Pumpkin. Of course, he wanted less to disappoint the girl, and couldn't really think of anything he'd want less than disappointing the girl besides maybe giving Steak a big hug and thanking him for his friendship over these long years, so the search continued. Regretfully.

And the next room in-

Red Wine stilled. There were a lot of things in that room. Most of them didn't matter. What mattered was the white cat. Round. Perched atop the wall, lazily, half in the building, half not. He couldn't tell if it had any markings. He also couldn't see if it had a collar or not, but he thought it might. Maybe. Somehow, it felt right. This felt _right._ Maybe. Red Wine stilled. The cat stilled even more.

"Pumpkin?"

The cat ignored him.

Shit. This was the point in which Red Wine realized that despite his years upon years of service to his Food Attendant, his years upon years of life and experience, and the fact he was a Food Soul, that somehow, just somehow, he never considered what to do if he found Pumpkin (maybe) and the cat didn't just walk up to him. Somehow, he didn't think- he just didn't think. That was it. He didn't think.

Shit. Normally he _thought_ so not having _thought_ was throwing him off. He had nothing. The cat started to turn outward, towards the forest beyond-

No. He had to think. And so Red Wine did the only thing he could: with every fiber in his being working as hard as it could, he called- no. Red Wine _crooned_ to the cat. "Pumpkin?" It was then that, seconds too late, he had the realization that he wasn’t quite alone.

Red Wine turned, quickly, hand dropping to his sword only to see a figure that could be no other than Steak. Steak, with his horns, his double swords, and-

-and his idiot laughter as he doubled over. It was a harsh bray of laughter. Loud. Astonished. Free. And Red Wine knew that he had heard him croon out _Pumpkin._ There was no way of taking that back. None at all. Red Wine shouted. One word, an utter betrayal of everything. “You!”

He realized his mistake a moment too late. The cats heard. The cats reacted. There were yowls and hissing, scratching as a cat darted past him, and the horde in the boxes (coffins) before escaped to other places. They found ways to escape. Through the floor. Through the ceiling, or what was left of it. Through the walls, which-

"No."

-included Pumpkin (maybe) who didn't hesitate in jumping through the hole in the wall that it had been considering and fleeing into the forest beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will get grimmer and darker later, but I thought I'd start easy. And yes, eventually I'll probably get back to mysteries such as who proposed to Steak, and what happened to Pumpkin, and so on.
> 
> I'll be titling the chapters after what year they take place, as I belatedly realized a non-linear thing without dates makes it difficult to keep track of such things.
> 
> Scrubs face.
> 
> If you got this far, thanks for reading.


	3. Year 98 (part one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steak didn't know enough to know what they'd call it, but he knew enough to know that, back in the days when his Master Attendant was alive and the two of them sat through more than one theater production solely because they had to, the poets and playwrights and artists would come up with some flowery way of describing just how remote the place they had found themselves was. Some flowery shit like 'west of the sun' or whatever.
> 
> "East of the sun."

Steak didn't know enough to know what they'd call it, but he knew enough to know that, back in the days when his Master Attendant was alive and the two of them sat through more than one theater production solely because they had to, the poets and playwrights and artists would come up with some flowery way of describing just how remote the place they had found themselves was. Some flowery shit like 'west of the sun' or whatever.

"East of the sun."

"Why would it be east of the sun, Red Wine?" Water ran down his horns, pooling on his head: Steak could feel it. A little especially damp spot, right at the base of his horns. He shook his head. (Red Wine looked as though, for a moment, he wanted to say something but decided against it. If it wasn't so damn wet Steak might've asked what he was going to say. As it was wet he decided to let it slide.) His head remained damp, as well as the rest of him, as well as Red Wine, probably, as well as the sky above them and the trees around them, the slopes above them and below, and this was why Steak hated the mountains. "That makes no sense."

Patiently, except not that patiently at all because it was Red Wine, and Steak _knew_ Red Wine by now and when he was patient and when he was faking patience and when he was leading into a fight, Red Wine said, "It's because the sun _rises_ in the east-"

"-so the sun's already in the east-"

"And it heads west."

Steak gestured, implying a _west_ that was further _west_ than the sunset. Somehow. "Which means that it could be further west than 'west.'" Why were they arguing about it?

Red Wine gestured back, implying an _east_ that was further _east_ than the sunrise, somehow, and Steak couldn't help but realize that the two gestures really weren't, actually, that different, were they? He hated that realization. "Or it could be further east than where the sun starts."

"But it's already in the east." Steak's hands reached for a sword. Sometimes, there was only one way these things could end.

"And it heads to the west." Red Wine mirrored him...again. _Again._ But at least the bastard realized and agreed as to where this would end up, because there was only one way this could end.

"East!"

"West!"

There was a gust of wind, as if the skies above them and the air around them had thoughts about their argument. But it also reminded Steak of the fact that he was damp and it was wet, and it looked like it might outright storm before long. It wasn’t the time to argue in their usual way. And it seemed Red Wine agreed. They stared at each other for one long moment, and then, in unison, very carefully released the hits of their swords.

It could wait until later.

Later. Later would be a better time to argue. Later, they could eat, drink, dry off, and then get back into arguing. Assuming that they found somewhere sheltered, that was. Later arguments were really dependent on where they found to wait out the rain, possible future storm. Steak could've sworn that he heard a roll of thunder, but that could've just as easily been Red Wine grumbling. He wasn't going to pay attention to that, especially since they had something better to pay attention to.

Namely, that Steak had no idea where the hell the two of them were, and the only consolation he had was knowing that Red Wine was also as lost as he was. If he wasn't, he'd have already been snapping out directions. Probably.

It wasn't as much of a consolation as Steak wanted it to be; Red Wine was being uncharacteristically quiet, at least when it came to the fact that they were lost. It didn't change the fact that they were lost. If one of them just said hey, we're lost, what now, maybe they could come up with a plan.

"Hey." But Steak still didn't want to say it.

"What?"

So he wasn't going to be the one to say it. "Did you hear that?"

Red Wine looked at him as if he was dumb, stupid, an imbecile, whatever else he wanted to call it. Then, his eyes narrowed, and Steak knew that Red Wine knew - or at least, suspected - what he was really trying to do which was stall for time until Red Wine was forced to admit that they were lost. Maybe. This would be so much easier if they had a third person with them. Then they could just have whomever that third person was admit that, hey, they were lost.

But they weren't with a third person. They were with each other. And the only danger they were in was being drenched. They were Food Souls. Rain wouldn't kill them. It would just make them very miserable.

"Yes," Red Wine said, or at least he tried to. The sudden gust of wind blew it away. It was lost in the rustling of leaves and the snapping of branches and the fact that Steak was, once again, keenly aware that he was wet. The second time Red Wine said it (louder, with feeling) he heard it. "I think it was a-" And the rest was lost.

"What?"

Red Wine stared at him, again, like he was dumb, stupid, an imbecile, whatever else he wanted to call it. Then he looked at the sky and the trees, and then shuffled closer. Closer than they usually stood unless they were about to fight, or, now Steak was thinking about it, those times when they were confronted by a human and needed to provide an united front, or those rare times where they were done with whatever it was that they were dealing with, but couldn't show it, so instead they just leaned against each other ever so slightly and nudged each other whenever whatever they were dealing with did something exceptionally dumb. They usually didn't both have to bite their tongues. But it happened a couple of times. And both times they had shuffled close enough that they were almost leaning against each other and nudged each other ever so slightly.

Red Wine then said, gravely, "A bird."

"Huh." Did it sound like a bird? "I guess."

"Like a-"

"-yeah." One of those big ones. A goose. With a wicked beak and a foul temper. And all of this was the exact opposite of them heading in a direction, like, say, shelter, but at the same time it was distracting him from the fact that he was wet. Or it did, but then Steak had remembered that they were outside and realized he was wet and it all came crashing down again. "Which way-?"

Red Wine pointed, and then started walking in that direction. Of course he did. And Steak didn't know what was worse: the fact he did that without saying anything, or the fact that Red Wine had beaten him to it.

The forest continued unabated around them. Trees around them. Ground beneath them. And following a bird call made absolutely no sense, but they were lost, and, besides, it wasn't the stupidest thing they would've done. If they were escorting humans, they probably would've concentrated on finding whatever shelter they could and waiting out the rain.

And maybe they should still do that, but there was no obvious shelter to be had, neither of them were going to ask for shelter when they didn't need it, and, besides, they could still travel. It wasn't that bad yet.

"Red Wine."

"What is it?"

Somehow, the two of them had drawn together until they ended up side by side again.

Steak really wanted to just admit that they were lost. "I heard of a Fallen Angel that can cause storms." Which was absolutely not what was going on here - it had sounded more like a goose opposed to an eagle - but he could pretend. Steak could pretend for a few moments because he was dangerously close to caving and admitting the increasingly obvious. "Maybe it's that."

And this was how Steak knew he had spent way too much time with Red Wine: he knew the look that Red Wine wanted to give him. He _knew_ the look Red Wine wanted to give him. That slow up and down. If he had a glass of wine in his hand, Red Wine would swirl it, once, before taking a very slow sip. And then he would purr out some line or another.

That was what Red Wine wanted to do.

Steak knew this.

He could feel it.

But they were in a forest. There was rain. They didn't have wine...and this was a sign of how low Steak was. This was a sign of how the rain was getting to him. A glass of wine actually didn't sound that bad now Steak was thinking about it. Steak would actually like a glass of wine. Red wine, the type _he_ liked, the type he was summoned from. Hell, he was desperate enough he'd take tea and small talk at those parties the Madam used to love holding with her friends.

(It had been a long time since Steak had thought of Red Wine's Madam and his Master Attendant.)

"We're lost, Red Wine."

Red Wine laughed, a sharp bark carefully shorn of humor, polished and oiled until it had a pleasing shine. "I never thought I'd hear you admit that."

"Well." Well. Now that he had admitted it there was no taking that back, as much as he wanted to. "It's wet. I'm wet." Then: "You're wet."

"I'm wet," Red Wine agreed, and it was a sign of how bad their situation was (or at least how unpleasant the situation was) if they were agreeing. Again. "The storm is only going to get worse."

This was normally the point in which they'd start arguing, but Steak couldn't argue. "Yeah."

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the rain which was, indeed, starting to pick up into being a storm. Not yet, but Steak could taste the wind and feel the air, and deep down he knew Red Wine was right: there was rain, and there was a storm, and a difference between the two, and what they were dealing with right now was going to become some form of the latter, sooner or later. They had to find shelter. Not because they'd die. Only because they'd be rather miserable if they didn't, and there was no point in marching through the rain.

Red Wine broke the silence between the two of them. "This is a surprise." He had said it a little too slowly for it to just be an extension of the usual between them, Steak...thought.

"What is?" And Steak had replied a little too slowly for Red Wine to take it as an extension of the usual between them, Steak...hoped. He didn't know. Red Wine didn't answer, anyway, at least not verbally. He pointed. Then faltered, as what he was pointed to (presumably) sank in.

At least, that was what Steak assumed. He could see why. Red Wine was pointing to a cave. Small. Half-hidden by an outcropping of trees, where the land rose up, it was the sort of cave which would invite them being murdered by a rockslide or mudslide later, and the sort of hole which the poets and playwrights and artists would come up with some flowery way of describing which would compare it to the path to the afterlife, perhaps. More pragmatic people would call it the sort of place Fallen Angels would nest in, and even an outright murder hole.

But it was also shelter, and the rain was increasingly becoming a storm.

—

The cave was empty, and Steak was surprised, because given everything that happened so far - them traveling into the mountains, their horses having been spooked by...something, walking, getting lost - he had half expected that they'd be surprised by something. A Fallen Angel, maybe. Or maybe just a bear.

"This is anticlimactic," said Red Wine. And it was. For all the presentation, with the trees and the dramatic cliffs and so on, Steak would have expected something more inside of the cave. Instead, it was just a cave. Small. Dry.

"It's dry."

Silence. "Yes. It is. Barely."

It was a truce that came for the worst of reasons, which was that the space was so small that any fights they tried to have would amount to having an awkward slap fight while huddled away from the rain, and Steak was increasingly aware of how cold it was. He was cold. And he wasn't the only one, he knew. Despite the fact that Red Wine presented himself as a cold bastard, and was a cold bastard in many respects, he craved warmth. Red Wine rejected the sun, but still reached for it, regardless. It was impossible to not notice. Probably the only one blind to it was Red Wine himself.

"I'll start a fire-"

"It's too small in here for a fire. Imbecile." Except Red Wine sounded tired and cold and defeated and that was concerning. Food Souls were made to endure, then die. They couldn't die from rain (probably) or a cold, but there was still only so much they could endure. Or something. It wasn't something Steak had spent a lot of time thinking of, but there he was, thinking about it. For one long moment wondering what would happen if he ended up breaking his promises, not intentionally, but what if that happened.

Then he carefully set aside that thought and denied that it had ever occurred to him.

"I'll start a fire."

"I just said-"

"I'll start a fire." Somehow. "Take off your coat and-"

"Dry off with what, exactly?" But then Red Wine added, "Sorry." Steak could count the number of times he had heard Red Wine say that on his fingers - less the number of times he had said it sincerely. Three times. This was, apparently, the fourth.

That was when Steak realized the mountains weren't just getting to him.

Steak sat. Red Wine sat down beside him. He leaned; Red Wine leaned back. Barely, but close enough where they could nudge each other and pretend like they were hitting each other.

Under other circumstances, with different people, this might have been peaceful. Restful. Two friends, ever so slightly leaning against each other, watching the rain outside as it came down. But he was Steak, and the Food Soul he was with was Red Wine, and they were lost, and they had found temporary shelter but they were still lost, and the hole was, he had to agree, too small to build a fire so they were both cold, and the fact they were Food Souls and not humans meant that, hypothetically speaking, they could be lost in the mountains for years. Years. They wouldn't be, but they could be.

Steak had never believed it, but it made him remember days back in the capital, when he and his Master Attendant were trying to kill time during nights like this, with the other knights, and the stories that they traded through the long hours of the night while they kept watch for Fallen Angels, brigands, animals, or whatever else. The things he heard. One in particular...

"Hey." Then. "Red Wine." As if there was anyone else in the hole in them that he could be speaking to.

Red Wine turned his head towards him. Arms crossed. As if he was afraid of accidentally touching him. Which he very well might be. They were practically obligated to spar the first real opportunity they had. Which was not now. Neither of them were at their best. (And that was a sign the situation was getting to Steak: a bath actually didn't sound like a bad idea. A change of clothes? Great.)

Red Wine said, politely, "Mn?"

Which wasn't actually saying anything, but fine, he could deal with it. "On nights like this, my Master Attendant's knights used to tell a story. It was about some kind of temple-"

"Temple?"

"I don't know what the hell they meant either. But they said it was made by Food Souls, like us, except older. Older than the kingdom."

Red Wine didn't say anything, but his eyebrows were politely uplifted. He wasn't frowning, but Red Wine's forehead was creased. He looked thoughtful, but in that way he was when he was hearing something that he had yet to decide how he felt about, but he knew he wouldn't entirely like it. Steak couldn't blame him. He had a similar reaction when he had first heard the story. Older? How could Food Souls predate their kingdom? The kingdom was ancient: Food Souls were meant to fight and die. They were disposable things. They weren't supposed to build temples.

"I know, I know."

And _then_ Red Wine frowned. Puzzled. Maybe faintly annoyed. Steak couldn't blame him if he was. "What would they even do for all that time?"

And _that_ was why he couldn't blame him if he was annoyed. "I don't know! I asked and they just said that if you found the temple the Food Souls will help you forget all your troubles."

Red Wine was silent for a moment. He looked away. The rain was outside. The sky was growing dark. At first Steak thought that Red Wine was nudging him, then, he realized that the other Food Soul was leaning in instead, ever so slightly. But they were both tired. It had been a long and shitty day.

"That's idiotic," Red wine finally declared with all the force of an edict from their Master Attendants. "That makes no sense. How would they single handedly make you-" Red Wine lifted his fingers into the air. "-'forget all your troubles'-" Each word was carefully sounded out lest any of it be lost to the rain, Steak supposed. Red Wine lowered his hands again, leaned in, yawned. Sneered. "That just makes them sound like some kind of...bar, perhaps."

"Yeah, I know. The knights never said why. I never understood why the hell they believed it, but they all seemed to." 

"Likely because they're human."

"...maybe." 

The silence fell just as the rain did. Heavy and thick and ceaseless. Insistent. The rain was insistent. The silence was insistent. But also strangely comfortable, in some way. Granted, he was cold, and granted, Red Wine was also likely cold. And hungry. They didn't need to eat in the same way humans did, but they still enjoyed eating. And they were still lost.

But there was still something comfortable about them, together, in the cave. Red Wine leaning against him, ever so slightly. Him leaning against Red Wine. For once the only thing they had to worry about was a stupid story. (And the lack of food, and the lack of heat, and the fact that their supplies had run off with their horses, but they couldn't do anything about those unless they really wanted to walk back into the rain. And Steak didn't.)

Then, Red Wine said, "I'm going to sleep."

"Fine by me."

Steak stayed awake as Red Wine either 'slept' or actually slept, he couldn't tell which it was, and it didn't matter. He was restless, in that tired way in which he wanted to do something, anything, everything, but he couldn't, because he was too cold to move. And, besides, Red Wine was leaning against him and Steak couldn't just move - he'd wake him up, and the last thing Steak wanted to deal with was his complaining. Things were bad enough.

And that just left him watching the rain, listening to Red Wine's breathing, and eventually he tumbled asleep despite his best attempts to stay awake, and his dreams were dark ones, long and painful ones, not nightmares but dark dreams, but Steak forgot almost all of them when he woke up which was for the best. He already had and would continue to have more than enough to deal with. The last thing he needed was more bad dreams. What was he supposed to do with them? Stab them? He couldn't.

No.

So all the better that he just forgot his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I couldn't fit it in, but it seems like a shame to waste it, so...
> 
> The story the knights told in Steak and Red Wine's home was, heavily paraphrased, heavily adapted a thousand times until the finer details have been lost, told and retold, but it was roughly as follows:
> 
> A long time ago there was a kingdom that was ruled by a strong and just queen, and a noble and wise king. They led a number of knights, all gallant, all strong and true, whose stories themselves would take a night to tell. They also led a number of Food Souls of immense power. Among them were notables such as Ichor (Cloud Tea), the Queen's Food Soul. Ambrosia, the King's Food Soul. And still others such as Silphium and Stone Soup, and others still whose names have been lost in time.
> 
> The kingdom prospered for a time, then fell. The Queen, with her dying breath, bid Ichor flee. Flee to preserve the memory of the kingdom, flee, and preserve what hope they had. Ichor fled, weeping. Her only companion was a magical singing white bird (Wonton's dumpling, Sweet and Sour Fish's voice).
> 
> The kingdom burned behind her. The unknown stretched before her.
> 
> After many years of traveling she came to a grove of magical apple trees. It is said these apples contained the secret to immortality and the secret to making Ichor. There, she built a citadel with her magic. Guarded by three black lions (Tortoise Jelly...somehow) and a dragon, she created a place. A resting place for all tired Food Souls and humans with truly noble spirits. There they could stay, gathering their strength, until one day they all returned to reclaim their kingdom, drive all the Fallen Angels from the world, and build a true paradise.
> 
> None of the Forgetful Courtyard Food Souls have any idea this story exists.
> 
> If you got this far? Thanks for reading.


	4. Year 1 (an interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But occasionally things happened like sitting through an insipid play and half-hoping that a Fallen Angel would crash through the wall and both end the play as well as give himself a way to vent his frustrations about the bad writing and the bad acting _and_ the especially hideous costuming he had endured.

Red Wine enjoyed going out with his Master Attendant except for the times that he...well, didn't, which were few and far between. He respected her. (More than that, he liked her. He genuinely enjoyed her company. Not a day didn't go by that he wasn't grateful that out of the hundred thousand humans with power, that she ended up as his Master Attendant.) But occasionally things happened like sitting through an insipid play and half-hoping that a Fallen Angel would crash through the wall and both end the play as well as give himself a way to vent his frustrations about the bad writing and the bad acting _and_ the especially hideous costuming he had endured.

Red Wine tried to console himself with the fact that he knew he wasn't the only one who was tired of the play. He could tell that his Master Attendant was struggling to focus until the intermission, to continue watching with all the stoic resolve of a knight waging a desperate battle. He also knew that when the time came, his Master Attendant was going to make her move, and, as her Food Soul as well as her friend, as well as someone sitting through the play and finding it torture, it would be his pleasure to support her in getting out and doing something more enjoyable. At this point his standards were so low that literally anything would constitute more enjoyable.

Until then, Red Wine endured.

The play had good reviews, which was the most offensive part.

...second most offensive part. The most offensive part was the fact they were watching it. And it had started off strong, Red Wine thought. The opening scene had been good. Entertaining. The audience had laughed in all the right parts. (He hadn't laughed, but the audience had.) It was apparently an old legend that had been passed down through generations of an ancient kingdom, filled with knights and Food Souls noble and true. It had been billed as a romance with a touch of comedy and a hit of sadness.

It wasn’t until fifteen minutes in that Red Wine had realized that the star-crossed romance was between a knight and his Food Soul.

And it wasn’t as if it didn’t make some sense on some level - he’d be rather surprised if some Master Attendant and their Food Soul hadn’t ended up in some doomed relationship at some point in the history of the world. But it was just so…odd. Clearly, whomever had penned the play hadn’t actually interacted with a Master Attendant, much less a Food Soul, if they automatically assumed that the only way their relationship could go was romantic. And not merely romantic - _tragically_ romantic, the most reductive form of it all.

“It’s overly simplistic,” he said as they boarded her carriage - his Master Attendant had feigned feeling ill and left the first second they could. She swooned. Red Wine tended to her. She turned away and smothered her grin in her sleeve in case one of her admirers (who were copious and numerous, and more than one had the fantasy of sweeping her off of her feet and breaking her arranged marriage with her fiance) thought this was an opportunity. Red Wine fussed for similar reasons. Her heart belonged to only one man. Red Wine knew this. The rest of the world (his Master Attendant included, at times) was a bit slower in realizing this.

“It’s almost insulting. Those idiots have never talked to an actual Food Soul.”

“Obviously.” It was safe: they were in the carriage and the chances that anyone would try to pass...something to the lady at this point was slim. He could sneer. He did. “It’s as if they think the only relationship a Master Attendant and a Food Soul can have is _that._ ”

She was staring at him, her head slightly tilted, her eyes piercing...wondering. She was wondering. “Was that what bothered you?”

“Yes?” He didn’t know what else to say about it.

The carriage rolled along for a long, silent, heavy moment. “My idiot fiance will be by tomorrow.” It was a change of topic, and yet...it didn’t feel like it was at all, to Red Wine. Odd. “He’s probably going to bring his Food Soul along with him.”

Red Wine remembered the Food Soul quicker than he wanted to. He _wanted_ to ask...oh. Who was it, again? Struggle to recall the face of him. But no, quicker than he wanted, the face of Steak popped into his mind. Red Wine wrinkled his nose. “Well-”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm listening to this dude talk and I can feel my soul departing my body. Press f to pay your respects.
> 
> Thanks for your comments I read them all and they warm me as I go through my day, especially in moments like this where my soul is trying to climb out of my body and flee. And thanks for reading.
> 
> I know I say this a lot but you could be doing a lot of things. And you read this! So. Thanks.


	5. Year 98 (part two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -blink, and Red Wine’s eyes were open. His cheek was cold. He was on rock.

-blink, and Red Wine’s eyes were open. His cheek was cold. He was on rock.

Why was he sleeping on rock? And his clothes, so damp. How did he get so damp? And where was he? And that was a _cow_ on top of him, why was there a _cow_ lying on top of him, just what was going on-

But then. He blinked, he remembered. The horses had bolted: Red Wine was lost in the mountains with Steak. It had rained. They had taken shelter in a cave because it was either that or walking in the mountains when it was wet, they were lost, and they were tired. And Red Wine had feigned sleep just so he wouldn’t have to talk to Steak, except he had apparently been bad at the feigning part. He closed his eyes. He fell asleep. He was more tired than he had thought.

But that meant the cow actually was-

Red Wine shifted his head. He would turn it entirely, but the angle made that difficult.

At some point during the...however long it had been, Red Wine had apparently shifted. He had been sitting: now, he was lying down. Red Wine had slid down to his side. But Steak had apparently slid with him, and now he was atop him, buried into his side. It was a miracle that he hadn’t ended up skewered by Steak’s horns. Those massive things. Goring him. Red Wine could just picture it. His hundred years (or so, just how long had it been?) of existence tragically ended in the stupidest way possible. 

Not that this was much better. Red Wine had slid to the ground, and against all logic or reason Steak had slid with him.

And apparently Steak smelled like a cow. Red Wine thought, at least. (It was at this point that Red Wine had no idea what a cow actually smelled like, but he assumed it would smell like Steak did. Like sweat and fire and heat, like wide open meadows and grass, like sunlight and the win. And a cow would feel like Steak did, like sunsets and the last days of summer edging into the fall. They probably smelled alike and felt alike.) He certainly snored like one.

Red Wine shifted his head away again.

There was absolutely nothing else in the cave worth staring at. He saw rock. He shifted his head again. More rock. He shifted his head back towards Steak.

And Red Wine couldn’t move, could he? If he did, Steak might wake up, and if Steak woke up then he’d have to deal with his complaining. Why did he have to move, you bastard, he was comfortable, or something. He might be cut by those horns. Steak was clinging too tightly for him to slip loose, as tempting as it was to do so and kick him in the face by accident. (Accident. Really. A tragic accident. It would be such a tragic accident and Red Wine knew both that Steak would never buy it and he'd wake up before he had the chance to kick, so all they'd be left with was the complaining.)

And this would be some definition of the word fine. Tolerable. Endurable. Except this left him with...what? He had stone beneath him, stone around him, dirt to stare at and an idiot clinging to him, the vestiges of a dream vanishing from around him, the rain outside - apparently it was still going. It had lessened, but it still was going. But Steak was warm like the sun. Steak blazed like the late summer sun that had a tendency to shine with punishing relentlessness, had no restraint or tact, burned like a spark in a too-dry forest, only occasionally realized that perhaps a breeze or stray cloud wouldn't go amiss, but for once his warmth wasn't so bad. Steak was hot. Red Wine was cold. His shoulder was stiff and his clothes were still damp. If his Master Attendant was alive and with them, he'd be worried about her getting sick. But she was not, and colds were things beyond Food Souls - while they could get sick, it expressed itself in slightly different ways than it did with humans - and it was just the two of them. It would be easier with a human. A human would force them into urgency, making quick decisions and moving forward faster.

Instead, here they were. Steak fast asleep, dreaming of who knew what, but judging from the twitching of his...leg? Something like that. Red Wine wasn't going to think too hard about what was twitching or why, but, regardless: judging from the twitching of whatever it was, it was an anxious dream. And Red Wine couldn't move.

Red Wine sighed and hoped that a wayward wagon would roll by their hole so he'd have an excuse to hit Steak awake and run out to transportation, guidance, perhaps they'd be a passing wine merchant and he could get a free sample. Anything. Instead, the rain continued to fall. The forest rested around them. Time crawled. And Red Wine couldn't move. Steak was heavy against him, breathing into his side.

Red Wine sighed.

Steak mumbled. He flinched.

"Go back to sleep."

It wasn't as if Steak had even woken up. He had just mumbled. _Mumbled._ And yet out it slipped. Fortunately, no one seemed to have heard him, besides perhaps Steak, who...grumbled, and buried his face in tighter. Somehow, he had found a way to hold on tighter. Steak's arms had shifted, and he clung tighter, and his grip shifted - his right hand, the sword he tended to favor when attacking - and his leg twitched again. Which brought up the question of just what it was that he was dreaming of.

It probably didn't matter.

Red Wine could barely remember his dream, but he remembered enough, and he supposed he should be grateful. If it wasn't for Steak mentioning that old legend he might not have remembered that play from long ago, or discovered he still remembered what his Master Attendant had looked like when she was young. He would be grateful, but Steak didn't seem as though he was going to let go anytime soon, and one mistake and his ribs would be skewered by a horn.

It was fine.

Red Wine could barely remember his dream, but he remembered enough. There was a play, boredom, and a carriage. His Master Attendant had been there, when she was young. He supposed he should be grateful. If it wasn't for Steak talking about the old stories his knight friends had passed around he might not have remembered that night from long ago, or realized he still remembered what his Master Attendant was like. And he would be grateful, but Steak didn't seem as though he was going to let go anytime soon, and one mistake and his ribs would be skewered by a horn.

It was fine.

Red Wine could endure tedium, and Steak was warm. The hole was not. The parts of him not covered by Steak were cold. In fact, he probably wouldn’t have fallen asleep in the first place if it wasn’t for Steak. (Red Wine carefully thought about the implications of that, and then carefully set those aside.) Besides the fact that the air was cold, and he was still damp, and the floor was still dirty, and the fact Steak was clinging to him so tightly, it wasn’t too bad, though. Pleasant. Peaceful. It would be nicer if he had something to do besides watch the ground. 

He couldn’t even stare at Steak for long, because of the angle of his head, and where Steak was burying his idiot face in, and-

That was a noise. Outside. That was some kind of noise. Something large was passing by, agonizingly slowly.

“Get up,” Red Wine hissed, grabbing for what he thought was a- it was a horn. He had touched Steak’s horn and it felt strange to have touched that. Invasive. He shifted his hand. The rest of Steak’s head. Better.

Steak grumbled into his side.

“Get _up,_ ” Red Wine hissed, sharper, and he shook Steak twice. Steak stirred. The pressure around his ribs eased as Steak rolled over, and, miracle of miracles, away from him. Steak breathed. His eyes remained closed.

If Steak didn’t wake up soon he would start kicking the idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barely survived the dude talking, for the record. I tasted so much snake oil I could make a dirty joke if I wanted to. And I almost do.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
